


you would never break the chain

by brophigenia



Category: Archie Comics & Related Fandoms, Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Astral Projection, Beltane, D/s understones, F/M, First Time, Happy Ending, Loss of Virginity, Masturbation, Pegging, Post-A Midwinter's Tale, Post-Season/Series 01, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual exploration, Strap-Ons, This is my fault, Underage Drinking, Voyeurism, and WHAT a first time, background political machinations, but you don't have to have seen it for this to make sense, everyone is 18 or older, everyone ships harvey/sabrina, just. like. this fic., leroy this is your fault, no it's not, pop's milkshakes bring all the boys to the yard, prudence gives the best presents, sabrina is the D and harvey is the s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-20 22:43:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17031342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brophigenia/pseuds/brophigenia
Summary: FemDom,the title of the magazine reads, andSpecial Pegging Issue!in lurid red font, practically dripping over its cover photo of a man on his hands and knees, head dropped down, covered by a buxom brunette in lots of leather with a mean snarl on her face.(AKA, the pegging fic.)





	you would never break the chain

**Author's Note:**

> guys, this is what is on my mind all the damn time. 
> 
> i am here. i am harvina trash. i am escorted out of the pizza hut.

_*_  * _*_

_damn the dark,_

_damn the light._

_***_

He lies electrified beneath her gaze; it feels strange and _good_ in a way that he knows in the pit of his stomach means _run away run away run away._

She floats above his bed, watching him, their bodies aligned, parallel, separated by only a few feet of air and a hundred or so miles. He can see right through her. Her eyes are large and dark. She looks like she’s about to cry; ever since she came to him in his bedroom the night of her… _Dark Baptism,_ she looks at him like she’s a moment away from weeping. It makes his gut churn, a sour taste blooming in his mouth. Like he’s curdling, rotting with his shame and his fear and his _longing._

He wonders if she knows she does this. It’s clearly magic; an apparition of her haunting his bedroom, staring, never speaking, never touching.

He knows he should be afraid. Weirded out. Alarmed. Anything but _this,_ hot-blooded and _hard._

She doesn’t ever mention it; maybe she thinks it’s a dream? Maybe she doesn’t remember it when she wakes up? Maybe she doesn’t _know_ that she spends every night in his room, but then again maybe she _does,_ and Harvey gasps when he snakes his hand into his boxers, curls his fingers around himself and _pulls._

He shivers the entire time like he’s _cold,_ trembles and stares up at Sabrina and her liquid coal eyes, but he’s not cold. He’s burning with it, with his love for her and his need for her and the confusion he feels over it all. He looks at her and sees Tommy but not like _this,_ not in the dark like this when the ambiguity of _them_ is overlain with pleasure like golden threads sewn into the fabric, like the throw pillows on the couches in the Mortuary’s parlor.  

He comes and gasps aloud with it, shakes, teeth chattering and stomach muscles jumping, thighs twitching.

Sabrina hovers above, expression unchanging. Above and apart.

He can almost _smell_ her, orange peels and blanched wood and vanilla. He pulls a pillow over his face and tries to sleep, pretending like he doesn’t know she’s still there, watching.

He falls asleep and dreams of Sabrina, weeping, hands bloodied, head crowned.

_***_

Nick’s entire backside is taut with muscle, layered beneath his lovely tanned skin. He is more compact than Harvey, who is Sabrina’s only other real frame of reference for sexual desirability in the realm of young men. Young warlocks. Young mortals. _Young things with hunger in their hands and greed in their bellies,_ as Dezmelda says.

(Sabrina spends a lot of time in Moon Valley, nowadays; spends a lot of time watching Lettie grow, spends a lot of time learning the most ancient ways from Dezmelda’s quietly patient teaching, spends a lot of time staring into the old witch’s cookfire silently, thinking, with Lettie asleep in her lap.)

Nick groans, low and long, as behind him Agatha angles her hips and hits some secret place within him that brings him pleasure so fraught it brings him to tears. He smothers those tears into her lap, nosing at her crotch through the layers of her skirt, tights, and underwear. Begging with his eyes as he grips her ankles tighter. Sabrina’s sure she’ll have bruises in the shape of his fingers tomorrow. She’s doubly sure she’ll rub Aunt Hilda’s bruise-be-gone cream into them as soon as they bloom, erasing all memory of Nick’s touch with the earthy green concoction.

“Harder, harder,” Nick begs brokenly, egging on Agatha, who lets her head fall back as her thrusts grow more frenetic. Sabrina soothes him with a hand stroked through his hair, taking pity on the adoration she sees whenever he looks at her. He’d do anything for her to have him this way, of that she is sure.

And he _is_ handsome. And she isn’t unaffected— between her legs she throbs and aches and _wants._ Only, it’s not Nick her _heart_ wants. Not Nick her _body_ wants, not really. She is susceptible to the concept, the idea, the sight and the smell of the jasmine oil that Dorcas had pressed deep into Nick as he wept for it. She watches Agatha’s stirring hips and the blurred pleasure making her eyes go glassy and thinks _yes, that._

(Only. It is not Nick she pictures beneath her.)

Nick orgasms with a hoarse shout, splattering his release on the flagstones of their dormitory, the furthest drops landing centimeters from her loafers. Probably one of the Sisters would’ve made him lick it up, if he’d gotten the leather dirty.

Prudence gives a light, disdainful applause from her perch on her own bed, dressed in silken pajamas and thoroughly unimpressed by Nick Scratch.

Nick pants damply into her lap; Sabrina wonders how long politeness demands she wait before shoving him off. Before she can come up with an answer, Dorcas is there, pulling him to his feet with a grip on his raven-black hair.

“Bedtime,” she says, with an arched eyebrow that means Nick doesn’t ask questions or make any smart-mouthed retorts. Sabrina’s not sure he would even without the extra foreboding— he sways on his feet, sweaty and starry-eyed and _sated._

Once he’s gone, Dorcas and Agatha disappear together into the bathroom, whispering and laughing. Sabrina’s cheeks are pink; she puts on her pajamas with numb, clumsy fingers that take a long time on the buttons. They feel too-hot, stifling.

Prudence is silent until they’ve turned off all the lights and the only sound is Sabrina’s too-loud breathing and the faint strains of splashing and laughing from the lavatory.

“You know, Spellman, I believe you’re the only witch in the world who can look morbidly depressed while participating in voyeurism.” It’s whispered, like a secret. Like it’s a kindness, that the words are just between the two of them.

“How _special,”_ Sabrina whispers back, full of bitterness like a mouthful of pineapple weed. She breathes out hard through her nose, stares at the ceiling. “What did you find out?”

Prudence hums, thoughtful now. “You were right. His defenses fell as soon as Dorcas got him on his knees. They’re planning to move forward with their plan soon. We’ll have to make plans to counteract it in a way that seems innocuous to the drones but has Father Blackwood on notice of a leak.”

Sabrina’s mind is already turning; she falls asleep thinking of countermeasures and political intrigue to the lullaby of Prudence’s even breaths, awake and watchful in the dark.

***

He finds the magazine in Tommy’s room, when he goes through it to divide the things that he wants to hide in his closet forever from the things he wants to hide in the attic forever. It smells dusty and stale in the room, nothing like it did Before.

He’s stripping the sheets off of Tommy’s mattress, folding carefully first the top sheet and the ragged quilt their grandmother had made, then slipping the fitted sheet from each corner.

He pulls too hard, moves the mattress a bit off its perch on top of the box spring, and there they are. A whole stack of them, well-thumbed-through and glossy, screaming _sexsexsex._

His cheeks burn and he laughs a bit— at himself, at Tommy, at their dad for not paying for good internet service. He sits down on the half-stripped mattress and looks at them, not for any real _reason,_ just because the last person to touch these things was _Tommy,_ and he can remember all the fumbling sex talks from eighth grade that by all rights should’ve been delivered by their dad and instead came from Tommy, who liked to use lots of football metaphors that fell apart under the slightest scrutiny.

Tommy never covered _this,_ Harvey can’t help but thinking with raised eyebrows as he reads the headlines on magazines like _Score, Genesis,_ and _Juggs._ Beggars couldn’t be choosers, he supposed, before coming to the final specimen in the stack.

 _FemDom,_ the title reads, and _Special Pegging Issue!_ in lurid red font, practically dripping over its cover photo of a man on his hands and knees, head dropped down, covered by a buxom brunette in lots of leather with a mean snarl on her face.

And, okay. Okay. Harvey’s face is bright red as he stuffs the magazines back beneath Tommy’s mattress, and he only gets redder as he has to pull them back out and add them to the very sparsely-populated box marked _trash._

He doesn’t look inside. He doesn’t.

It’s just, he doesn’t have to.

Harvey’s not too upright to use public WiFi for… less than savory purposes. He’s been online. He’s seen things. He’s seen enough to understand what that leather-clad brunette was no doubt doing to her kneeling partner in the pages of Tommy’s magazine.

It’s not the thought of her that keeps flashing across his mind, later. That’s the thing.

Sabrina’s projection floats above him that night and he can’t stop himself, can’t do anything _but_ imagine it, writhing, heart thundering like he’s going to get caught when he knows he’s alone, all alone.

“Brina!” He chokes out, breathless, finally, picturing something so far and away from the woman on the cover of Tommy’s magazine that it would almost be completely unrelated if not for the leather straps wrapped around Sabrina’s slim hips like indelible ink.

Sabrina’s expression doesn’t waver, translucent above him, but maybe he imagines that the look in her eyes shifts to something a little more considering.

***

Lettie comes toddling to greet her, shrieking _Aun’ Brina!_ and waving chubby little fists. It makes Sabrina’s throat feel thick, her eyes hot, and she has to duck her face into Lettie’s shoulder when she sweeps the child up in her arms, cradling her wispy-haired head in one hand. It feels momentous. It feels terrifying. She wonders if Zelda and Hilda feel this way whenever they look at her, and she only feels more staggered.

“Hi, Lettie-Bettie!” She says, forcing light levity into her voice as she puts her honorary niece back on her feet. “Have you been good for Auntie Dez while I’ve been gone?”

Lettie nods very seriously, no trace of Blackwood’s evil in her dear little face. No trace of her mother’s solemn watchfulness either, and Sabrina wonders again at nature versus nurture, wonders if she herself was always doomed to be _this_ or if outside forces are entirely to blame.

“We learnt the Feather Light Potion!” Lettie announces proudly, enunciating carefully with clumsy three-year-old teeth and tongue. She takes Sabrina’s hand, tows her into the hut to show off her efforts, and Dezmelda gives her a knowing kind of look from where she’s wrapped in a shawl by the fire.

“Your cares are many, child.” Dezmelda observes over Lettie’s head, shrewd to the ways of the heart for all that she’s been hidden away from the world for so so long. Sabrina’s eyes drop, focusing on the flying mouse Lettie is calling _Pepper._ Pepper’s eyes are bugged out and its whiskers are twitching and Lettie’s clapping her little hands and Sabrina cards her fingers through Lettie’s curls and hopes she never feels like this, torn between two worlds. Between what she knows is the noble thing to do and what she knows is the only thing that will make her happy.

“Heavy is the head that wears the crown,” Sabrina responds bracingly. “And heavier still the head that would usurp the crown.”

Dezmelda’s lips pleat and she rocks, thoughtfully. “True enough,” she agrees finally. “And yet the usurper might remember her own youth, and be kinder to herself for that remembering.”

Pepper shoots across the room and Lettie follows; Sabrina shrugs helplessly and goes chasing after, gamely giving up her wordplay for gallivanting. It’s not a difficult choice.

She reminds herself what she’s fighting this half-secret war for, every time she goes into the Greendale Woods with the intention of ending up here. Lettie laughs like a peal of bells on top of a mountain where the air is thin and clear, untouched by the greed of her father and the hatred of the outside world.

There are sacrifices in every battle.

***

“Kinkle! Fancy seeing you here.” Nick Scratch looks no less intimidatingly _cool_ under fluorescent lighting, and Harvey can’t help his grimace as he takes the warlock in, frozen in place midway putting a can of Potato Stix into his cart.

“I _live_ here.” It’s plaintive and kind of whiny and not even really _correct,_ because Harvey lives in a house and not in Al’s Grocery, but the point still stands. He has more right to be here than Nick, in his black turtleneck and black pants and black coat and black boots, looking like a tall glass of motor oil.

“Of course you do,” Nick says, so smarmy that Harvey feels an urge to punch him in his stupidly symmetrical face. There’s no need to ask why _he’s_ here. There’s only one person in town Nick Scratch, warlock cool guy, could be visiting. Only one reason why he’s standing in Al’s Grocery at 10 PM on a Tuesday night clutching a bag of Brina’s favorite chips to his turtlenecked chest. Salt’N’Pepper Utz, and Harvey swallows down the betrayal rising unbidden and unfairly in his throat.

He abandons his cart and leaves without saying anything else, his knuckles itching and his eyes stinging. He’s got no right. He’s not this guy. He’s not some asshole, he’s not his dad— he can’t be this guy.

He’s not _this guy_ but he punches the steering wheel as hard as he can and hisses through his teeth at the hurt that comes on the heels of violence. So is the way of the world.

He lies in bed until dawn staring up at the ceiling; Sabrina never comes.

Harvey carefully does not think about the reasons Sabrina might have for not sleeping, and drinks an extra cup of coffee in the morning to make up for his sleepless night.

Sabrina doesn’t come to first period, or second. Harvey goes home during third, and chops up enough wood to feed the fire all winter.

His palms ooze blood by the end of it; he watches the blood swirl down the drain.

He closes his eyes and feels his way into bed, doesn’t let himself look to see if Sabrina is there, watching.

He sleeps fitfully, and dreams of fog, thick and unnatural. Of running. Of the breath of some beast on the back of his neck, and Sabrina’s voice yelling _Harvey, Harvey!_

***

Beltane is just as wild this year as all the years since her Dark Baptism; Sabrina dresses in lurid red silk and lets Dorcas paint her face, the curve of her collarbones.

“Blessed Beltane,” Agatha says, and drags her scarlet-painted mouth over the high ridge of Sabrina’s cheekbone, staining it in perfect concert with Dorcas’ marks.

“Blessed Beltane,” Sabrina responds, and takes another long pull on the liquor-heavy punch that Prudence had produced from some secret hiding place with a glowing grin.

It’s all warmth; _everything_ is all warmth, and Sabrina is buzzing even before they make it to the ballroom, where the maypole has been set up. This year she feels less overwhelmed; this year she feels like a slinking predator wearing a human skin. Like she could go toe-to-toe with the Dark Lord and win.

Father Blackwood looks unwell; thin and shifty-eyed and _afraid._ His fear is a sweet, palpable thing. Prudence seems to glow more every time she tastes it in the air. Sabrina feels for the first time as if victory truly _is_ on the horizon.

After they ring the maypole in silks there is nothing but the pound of bass-heavy music and the feel of bare skin on her own.

Nothing but that for long enough that she’s shaky when she walks, overloaded; her knees feel like Auntie Hilda’s figgy pudding, and she thinks she’ll have to stop and rest a while on the floor before all of a sudden Prudence is there, bolstering her with a strong arm twined around her waist.

“Like a green child on Walpurgis,” Prudence murmurs in her ear, syrupy-amused, with honeyed mead on her breath. Sabrina smiles and can’t help but laugh, even as Prudence all but pours her into bed.

She falls into soft blankets and something less soft, unyielding and angular and sharp-cornered. It stirs a squawk out of her throat, a sound of surprise that turns into a tipsy laugh midway through.

Like she always does when Sabrina laughs, Prudence makes a face like both a smile and a frown. Soft and unhappy, but fond.

(Sabrina doesn’t laugh much, anymore; none of them do.)

“What’s this, Prudence?” She asks through her giggles, curling her toes in the thick oriental carpet.

“A present.” Prudence answers, and stretches out on top of her own bed.

“A present?” Sabrina repeats, almost asleep.

“He’ll like silicone more than demonhide. Blessed Beltane, Sabrina Spellman.” Prudence’s voice is the last thing she hears, and then there is only sweet darkness.

***

In the end, they see each other again at the grand opening of the newly-franchised Riverdale-born _Pop’s,_ right across the street from the bookstore. Summer is in full blush; Sabrina’s dress is as pink as the strawberry milkshake on the counter in front of her, and with cherry-red lips she smiles around the straw at the sight of him, ordering a double chocolate malt milkshake with extra whipped cream. School is out for the last time and the air is sweet with it, everything heady and _hot_ and impermanent.

He’s so beautiful. Harvey Kinkle has taken her breath away since she was thirteen years old, and she feels lightheaded with it now. With possibility. Brimming with a secret kind of feminine power the likes of which she’d been standing on the cusp of for so long and now was taking entirely into herself.

A path not Dark nor Light; the whole world contained in her hollow bird bones, her full-to-bursting heart, her as-yet-vacant womb. “Harvey,” she said, and meant _I love you._

“Brina,” he said, and meant _Sabrina Spellman, my only sunshine._

Their hands brushed; their fingertips touched.

 _Okay,_ she thought. _Okay._

***

“There’s something.” Sabrina said, halting, blushing, feeling all of her eighteen years in nothing but her slip and bra, warm beneath Harvey’s gaze, both soft and sharp.

“Anything,” Harvey murmured, kneeling in front of her, thumbs brushing back and forth over the thin skin of her ribs. She curled her toes into the wiry hair on his thighs and leaned down enough to nose along his jawline. The closeness had her breathless, dizzy.

The box was hidden beneath her bed, still as neatly packed as it had been when Prudence had given it to her Beltane night. She twitched her fingertips and called it out from its hiding place, sliding along the floorboards to come to rest pressed against Harvey’s leg. She couldn’t watch as he opened it with shaking fingers, eyes closed and face pressed into his.

He inhaled sharply when he saw it, and she waited, still as a serpent. All bated breath and bared soul and rosy knees.

“Brina,” he said, lashes fluttering butterfly-soft. She wanted to touch him all over.

He went down easy for it, easier than she could’ve ever imagined in all the dreams she’d had where she woke up sweating and on the verge of combustion. Let her press him into the softness of her mattress, the iron-framed bed where she’d slept each night since graduating from the cradle that had once lived between Aunt Hilda and Aunt Zelda’s beds. _Harvey Kinkle,_ the handsomest boy she’d ever seen, twisting his big hands restlessly into her bone-white bedsheets and turning his head side to side, restless, on the pillows while she pressed her slim fingers inside where he was blood-hot and _tight._

“You’re so beautiful,” she whispered, and kissed the side of his knobby knee, watching avidly as he opened up for her, pink and new, his erection resting plush and steel-cored and leaking on his flexing abs. He moaned at that, and his flush went all the way from his cheeks to his chest, freckles marking all the places on his shoulders she wanted to put her mouth to.

“Do you _—oh god—_ do you know what you do late at night?” He asked, gasping, eyes rolling as she crooked her fingers, words spilling from his mouth like gold coins. Precious and unexpected. “When you’re sleeping? Oh _god,_ Brina.”

She shook her head, only half aware, not understanding because there was nothing to understand that wasn’t the spread of him around three of her fingers and the scent of the rose oil she’d slicked over her fingers to ease the way.

“Brina,” he said, even more urgent, and his stomach muscles contracted as he came up onto his elbows, mouth open and slick. “Brina, do you know?”

“Know _what?”_ She asked, getting up onto her knees and slicking her hand over the length of the plum-colored dildo that Prudence had oh-so-helpfully provided, held in place by a web of finger-slim leather straps. The sight of its tip kissing where she’d carved a place for herself _inside_ Harvey had her eyes closing, her lips moving in some kind of prayer to whatever deity was listening. Her marrow was boiling with power. She felt the rush of it, sweeter even than the moment when Father Blackwood had been struck down and the statue of the Dark Lord reduced to rubble.

“I see you every night,” he told her, and made a keening sound deep in his throat when she started to press in, in, in, until she was _in_ and their faces were so close together she could count each one of his individual eyelashes.

“I see you all the time,” she confessed back, and thrust a little clumsily, unused to it. She felt unbearably proprietary, touching all the muscle and smooth skin she could get her hands on. Harvey just stared at her, like he couldn’t believe it. Like he couldn’t believe any of it, and he was so sweet for all she had to give him.

She could get addicted to the sight. To the flex of his thighs, sprawled open for her to conquer. To the dull pleasure of the dildo’s base up against her pubic bone every time she rocked her hips.

“Brina, Brina,” Harvey all but wept, eyes wet. He tongued the corner of his own mouth, sucked his own lower lip. Scraped his teeth over the thin skin there. “I got into Notre Dame,” he said, and bared all of that tanned throat to her eyes, her teeth. Her fingers.

She curled her fingers around that finely-wrought throat. “I love you.” She said, upping the stakes. “I never stopped.”

“I’m going to—“ Harvey said, and did, and Sabrina devoured the sight with her eyes, above him not like a specter but like a coverlet, like snowfall on sand, like everything that made him feel safe and _okay,_ and maybe it wasn’t how he had pictured it but that didn’t make it any less _wondrous._

“I love you,” she whispered, and drew back, watching every twitch and wince as she withdrew from him. He was red and soft to the touch, swollen with the aftermath of their coupling; she stroked him with her knuckles and only shrieked a little bit when he snatched her up with an arm around the waist to haul her against his broad chest, and _oh_ he smelled so good, like ashes and boy and strawberries. Like _Harvey,_ and his fingers rubbed inelegantly but _firmly_ between her legs, shoved under her harness and the base of the dildo to get at her where she was dripping and throbbing with her need.

“I love you, Sabrina,” he murmured into her shoulder, and she tumbled off the edge then, a feeling like fire consuming her from navel to knee.

Victory, and completion. Not even magic tasted so sweet.

***

“You’ll write me, won’t you?” She murmured for the hundredth time, curling her fingers into the hem of her stolen crewneck, emblazoned with the Fighting Irishman and fraying a bit on the left cuff.

Harvey laughed a little, ducked his head to kiss her. “And text you, and call you, and FaceTime you.” He listed, wrapping her up in his arms, lifting her enough so she could wrap her legs around his waist. “And I’ll see you in my dreams.” A scant kiss pressed to lush lips, almost-chaste except for how it spread flames of desire down both their throats.

“I think you mean you’ll see me in _my_ dreams,” she laughed. “Harvey Kinkle, you’re a wonder among men. The apple of my eye. The pajamas on my cat. The eyebrows on my elephant.” She was all but shouting by the time she’d finished, and he kissed her on the point of her chin, helpless not to smile.

“You’re Sabrina.” He said, and meant _I don’t have the words to describe you. There are no words that describe you._

Ambrose shouted something jeery and amused from the porch where he was catching the last of the August sun’s rays. Birds chirped in the trees. Aunt Hilda was baking with the windows thrown open, strawberry licorice cobbler heavy in the air. Aunt Zelda was pointedly _not_ spying on them from the upstairs window. Salem wound his body around Harvey’s ankles.

“You’ll be home for the Feast,” Sabrina soothed, curving her hands over Harvey’s fine seashell ears. “And I’ll come visit for Labor Day weekend.”

“Hey. I love you. You love me. What’s a thousand miles when you’ve got true love on your side?” Even as he said it, he grinned in self-deprecation at his own cheesiness. Sabrina wanted to smother his face in kisses. Wanted to lay every enchantment, every protection spell in the history of the world upon him. Wanted to pack herself up and go with him.

“Go now,” she urged him, squirming out of his hold after one last kiss. “Before I spell all the air out of your tires and keep you in my dad’s puzzle box for the next four years.” It was an empty threat and they both knew it, but the sentiment remained. _Go, before I cry and you cry and it gets too maudlin to stand._

“When you come visit,” Harvey said, walking backwards to the truck to keep her in sight as long as possible. “You should bring your harness.”

Sabrina blushed, and grinned, a little dark, a little mean. A lot intoxicating. “Maybe I will,” she taunted. “Maybe I’ll get a new… attachment for it.”

Harvey shivered, like a promise, and drove away with the image of it in his mind.

Labor Day wasn’t too far off. He’d have to make sure to be ready for her.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me @ brophigenia.tumblr.com


End file.
